


Laugh, Little Soldier

by BellaRisa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, BAMF Sherlock, Bottom John, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Interrogation, M/M, Non-Consensual Tickling, Sherlock is a Brat, Tickle torture, Tickling, and a determined git, ticklish John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:17:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaRisa/pseuds/BellaRisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was well-trained to withstand torture. Pity they didn't prepare him for REAL agony ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laugh, Little Soldier

“Let’s try again, shall we?”

That velvet-wrapped-in-iron voice thrummed against John’s ear in the darkness, renewing his desperate attempts to speak, to break free from the impossibly long and impossibly strong arms and legs binding his own as he lay naked and helpless. How the hell did this even happen?? He couldn’t take another round of…of…surely by now the man would listen…he _had_ to…

“Poor you,” purred the voice almost soothingly, “I can tell you’re reaching the end of your tether. It’s quite simple, just tell me and I’ll stop. We do want this to end before sunrise don’t we?”

The doctor *did* want this to end, wanted the torture to stop stop STOP so he could stop screaming and struggling and begging like an idiot. None of his combat training included escaping a situation like this, this was absurd and STUPID and…and he would do ANYTHING to stop it. Except the one thing required. That he would not do and that was his undoing…

Rubbing his reddened cheek against the mattress, now sodden with sweat and tears of hopeless struggling, John had to try reasoning again…

“Li-listen you bastard, I _can’t_ tell you, YOU made me promise I wouldn’t; this isn’t fair! It’s only been 3 days, you have to trust me—“

**“5.”**

**“NONONODON’T START THAT COUNTING AGAIN DAMMIT!!!!”**

**“4.** Tell me and this will stop.”

“Sh-Sherlock please, I can’t take it,-I-I-I-“

“If It’s so very awful than make it stop. **3.** " John panicked as Sherlock’s hands began searching for their next targets and his mind began to spiral, his struggles violently useless.

"Sherlock SERIOUSLY THIS IS RIDICULOUS!!!”

“I agree, it is. Tell me and the ridiculousness will stop. **2.** ”

The desperate little doctor threw himself against the steely arms around him in one last attempt to escape to…bloody anywhere but here…only to hear that vile, deep chuckle in the darkness…

"Obviously you’re enjoying this. As am I, and it’s a fine distraction. **ONE."**

**“NONONOGODAMMITAAAHAHAAYOUARSEHOLEIHATEYOU—-!!!”**

Anyone who has ever been tickled by a determined violinist knows the true depths of Hell.

A sinister hand returned to worming its long fingers deep into john’s right side, just beneath his last rib. They probed and kneaded and drilled as the good doctor screamed his tortured laughter, his struggles much weaker than they’d been at the start of this madness. Once again the hand that had been camped under John’s arm for what seemed like hours began to oh-so gently open and shut, the fingers scrabbling against the thin, sensitive skin. With a rather high-pitched squawk the ticklish little doctor immediately tried for the umpteenth time to slam his arm to his side, but Sherlock was holding him in a way that both arms, and legs for that matter, were woefully immobile. As a trained soldier John could easily break free, but not without hurting his torturer; the irony was appalling.

When that first terrible hand left his aching side only to spider down his upper thigh and begin squeezing just above his kneecap he lost it completely, shrieking and too far gone with sudden hysteria to even protest properly. Unseen in the darkness Sherlock grinned, in a bizarrely sadistic-yet-loving manner, as an amusing mix of swearing and demented laughter was sliding helplessly from his victim; while claw-like fingers squeezed and pinched at the poor ticklish kneecap, that other awful hand migrated from his armpit (finally!) further down and began kneading at the very top of John’s pec muscle (FUCK ME); a nastily effective method John called the Deep Tissue Massage from Hell.

“SHE-SHERLOCK!!! PLEA—“

“You know what I want to hear. Tell me and this will stop.”

“I CAN’T YOU KNOW I CAN’T F-FUCKIN’ STOPPIT!!!!!!!”

“Apparently you’re not ready to end this; that’s fine, I quite like it myself.”

The prick doesn’t even sound winded! I will end him and this time he won’t bloody come back, thought the bit of John’s brain that was still enjoying sanity.

When a ghastly amount of minutes had passed the demon detective slowed all ten fingers and rubbed the tortured muscles instead. John gasped in a lungful of air and gathered his wits, and was about to angrily tell his tormentor to FUCK OFF AND DIE when the hand that had been squeezing above his knee wormed its way higher up, nestling in the space between John’s upper thighs and wrapping itself just under the left cheek of his backside in the crease between bumcheek and thigh. John’s angry diatribe instantly died on his tongue, his struggles to escape highly reinvigorated; he was horribly ticklish there and Sherlock knew it (just thinking about the first night he’d discovered that was enough to break John into a cold sweat and make him hard at the same time), and this was simply not the moment to antagonize the determined detective.

“Sherlock ST-STOP IT, let me GO!!! Please, I swear to God we’ll get you new patches first thing in the morning and-“

“I don’t want new patches,” rumbled the baritone voice out of the darkness, “I want those cigs that we both know are here someplace and I want them NOW. Tell me where you’ve stashed them and I’ll stop. Or by all means keep stalling, and I’ll keep my mind off them by tickling you out of your skin. I honestly don’t mind as long as you don’t, but the more I want them the more I’ll make you scream.”

I—AAGH HAASTOPITSTOPITDAMNYOU!—EAAHH—!!!!” John’s attempt at reasoning was lost as the hand between his thighs started tickling. And tickling. And tickling. Sherlock clamped his other hand over John’s mouth, muffling the furiously ticklish shrieks to add to the frustration as he truly tormented the shaking smaller man. On and on it went, John’s own hands and feet writhing desperately for purchase, until finally it stopped once more, Sherlock having the gall to gently pet John’s hair as the half-crazed doctor shuddered and breathed in as deeply as he could once the hand was removed. His eyes were watery from laughing so fecking hard into that silencing palm, and he was pretty sure his lungs were actually on fire; how did little kids get through this?? This had to stop! Just as he was about to tell Sherlock he was giving up and he could have the damn things…

“Obviously you can’t handle much more, little soldier. Be a good boy and tell Daddy what he wants to know.”

“Oh FUCK YOU—!” Instantly John’s energy was renewed, no way he was giving in now!

That lasted about 7 seconds.

The last thing he remembered before…before he broke into bits…was Sherlock’s murmured “Right then, let’s really play shall we?”

Things went a bit not right after that.

Sherlock threw a leg over and hauled himself on top of the helpless doctor, rolling them both until John was smashed deep into the extra soft downy mattress with Sherlock covering him head to foot. Bony knuckles began an absolutely relentless strumming of John’s ribs on either side, pausing occasionally to find the areas between those ribs and vibrate in a way that simply should not be allowed. Burrowed into the bed as he was there was nothing he could do; it was pure unadulterated agony for the hellishly ticklish soul now bawling laughter into the sheets. As if that wasn’t torture enough, the Consulting Sadist buried his full lips down into John’s vulnerable neck and began nibbling and nibbling, his own head in a place where John couldn’t even scrunch his shoulders for protection of any kind. Silent laughter and the kicking of one leg was all John was capable of as it went on and on, until one rib In particular was plucked one too many times and the poor man was simply and utterly done.

 **“AWRIGHTAWRIGHTFINEFINEFINEYOUWINYOUWINDAMMITTHEY’REONTHEBISON!!!!!”** John screamed out with what he was certain was the very last of his breath. Sod this, let the daft git have his precious death-sticks if it meant an end to this agony. Tomorrow he’d feel guilty for giving in, especially under such shamefully childish duress; but tonight was about survival.

Sherlock did indeed still his hands, waiting menacingly for John to further give up the goods. 

“Care to repeat that? Trust me you do.”

“They’re on the damned bison (wheeze, wheeze again), now let me go!”

“I checked the bison, thoroughly,” growled Sherlock, his fingers oh-so-gently pulsing and making poor John twitch just enough. “I know you know better than to lie to me….”

“You know I can’t lie to you, you spooky dick. They-they’re taped in...inside the right earphone I swear to GOD, Let me GO and I’ll get the fuggin’ things for you right now!”

 _And shove them right up your arse_ he thought, but had far too much sense to say out loud.

Sherlock stilled completely, considering and ‘reading’ his exhausted lover shuddering beneath him. After a moment his hold on John loosened enough that John knew Sherlock believed him, thank Christ.

“There’s my good boy,” he cooed against John’s sweat-soaked hair, a phrase he knew John hated but was in NO position to bitch about at the moment. Sherlock released him, snapped on the bedside lamp and rose from the mess of a bed, shrugging into his dressing gown as he smirked at the crimson lump recovering on the far side of the mattress.

“They had better be there. I believe you…but they had better be there.”

“They ARE, I promise you. Have all of them at the same time for all I care, just go away and let me die.”

“I’m sure you’ll live. When I come back I’ll make it all better.”

John couldn’t help the delicious way his insides fluttered at that, knowing it was likely quite true. Prick.

Tomorrow Sherlock would feel badly, not for tickling his partner half-to-Hades (he was a sadist and this had been fun as well as profitable) but for breaking his promise to John and to himself. He’d mope and strop like the drama-queen that he was, and they’d find him a higher dosage of nicotine patches and maybe some of that gum and start again. At least this bloody awful interrogation was over; as silly and trite as it sounded to break under tickling, for Christ’s sake, he honestly couldn’t take anymore. Turning over and stretching as he rubbed ruefully at his violated sides and ribcage, he vaguely he wondered why Sherlock was thumping back up the stairs so hard and so quickly; surely he hadn’t had time for a satisfying smoke already…

*********************************************

Settled in the comfy chair by her sister’s fire, Mrs. Hudson gazed into the flames over her teacup and had the funniest feeling that she’d forgotten to tell John something. She’d Hoovered their floors before leaving Baker Street and found…a pack of something, cards perhaps…? Just under the bison head. Something she knew John would want but Sherlock shouldn’t have so she’d put them in a drawer in her own kitchen. Ah well, it would come to her, it must not have been very important. She’d ask John about it when she got home the next day, he'd likely be quite grateful she’d found whatever it was.


End file.
